


and when i'm with you i turn all shades of pink

by contradictory_existence



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, The Mortifying Ordeal of Someone Being Nice to You, They're stupid your honor, this is a self callout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28021947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/contradictory_existence/pseuds/contradictory_existence
Summary: Aziraphale rolls his eyes and carries on."Yes,I know you’re not ‘nice,’ andyes,I know it’s against your demonic nature, andyes,I know it gives you allergies. But to be quite frank, my dear boy, you are my truest friend and you deserve to know it.”“Eh…” Crowley trails off into a series of incomprehensible vowels and mutters something under his breath.Aziraphale sighs. “Care to repeat that?”“Yeah, uh… meant to tell you eventually, but… neverreallycameup.” Crowley sucks air in through his teeth.(In which Crowley is not actually allergic to kindness.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 101





	and when i'm with you i turn all shades of pink

**Author's Note:**

> title from "crush" by tessa violet

It starts, as many things do, in Eden.

“I do hope I didn’t do the wrong thing,” Aziraphale says, fretting. His feathers fluff up a bit in distress, which makes an odd thing stir in Crawly’s chest.

He raises a brow and offers wryly, “Oh, you’re an angel, i don’t think you _can_ do the wrong thing.”

Aziraphale turns to him and positively beams. “Oh, _thank you,”_ he says warmly, adding, “It’s been bothering me.”

Crawly, for his part, is not quite paying attention to that last bit, bowled over as he is by the angel’s reaction. He chokes on a bit of air, which shouldn’t even be possible, damned corporation, must be some sort of malfunction, and his face is hot, unpleasantly so, and there’s that _blasted_ thing in his chest again—

“Are you quite alright?” Aziraphale asks, concerned.

“Yeah, fine,” Crawly manages, “It’s just, ehhh… a demon can get in a lot of trouble for doing the right thing.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. His face does something complicated, which Crawly’s future self will know is a mixture of concern, confusion, and discontentment and means he wants something he’s not sure he should want, and it’s Crowley’s job to convince him it’s alright (like when they’re at a restaurant and God forbid the waiter accidentally takes the second dessert to the wrong table and Aziraphale pouts and bats his eyelashes at Crowley and Crowley sighs and uses a miracle to make it better and pretends it isn’t for both their benefit).

Current Crawly, however, is not privy to this information, and just takes the angel’s reaction at face value. _There,_ he thinks, mentally dusting off his hands, _problem solved._

(It was not solved.)

…

Aziraphale should know better by now. He should, really, but all the same he can’t help the way it slips out in place of the words he really wants to say. And slip out it does, over and over and over again. Stubborn thing.

In 1793, in the Bastille.

(“I suppose I should say thank you. For the, er, rescue,” Aziraphale says, trying very hard not to look like a newly saved damsel no-longer-in distress.

Crowley squawks, jerking to his feet indignantly. “Don’t _thank_ me, angel, it’ll gives me hives.”

Aziraphale’s smile morphs into a moue of disappointment. “I was just being polite,” he protests.

“I’d rather you not,” Crowley grimaces. “It’s blessed and annoying and… and _itchy.”_ He shudders at the thought.

“Very well,” Aziraphale sighs, then brightens. “What would you say to some crêpes?”)

In 1941, in a recently demolished and rather dusty church.

(“That was very kind of you, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, his hat in his hands and his heart on his sleeve.

“Satan below, angel, warn a demon before you start throwing that stuff around.” Crowley’s face twists up for a few seconds before he lets out a sneeze. Rather adorable, in Aziraphale’s opinion, if you discount the hellfire and brimstone.

“Bless you,” Aziraphale says reflexively, and Crowley lets out one of those groan that would very much like to go on for eternity.

“For _fuck’s_ sake.”)

In 1967, with the Soho lights casting Crowley’s face in lovely colors.

(Except this one was quite the other way around, wasn’t it? It aches to think about, that quiet “Should I say thank you?”

_Better not.)_

And now, on the first day of the rest of their lives.

“I know you don’t like it when I thank you,” Aziraphale begins, letting them into the shop after a rather scrumptious lunch at the Ritz, “but I want you to know that I really do appreciate you.”

“Angel—” Crowley starts, voice slightly strained.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes and carries on talking as he makes his way into the back room with Crowley in tow. _“Yes,_ I know you’re not ‘nice,’ and _yes,_ I know it’s against your demonic nature, and _yes,_ I know it gives you allergies. But to be quite frank, my dear boy, you are my truest friend and you deserve to know it.”

“Eh…” Crowley trails off into a series of incomprehensible vowels and mutters something under his breath.

Aziraphale sighs. “Care to repeat that?”

“Yeah, uh… meant to tell you eventually, but… neverreallycameup.” Crowley sucks air in through his teeth. “‘M not actually allergic,” he says, wincing.

Aziraphale blanks. “You’re what?”

Crowley shuffles a bit uncomfortably and shoves his hands into the tiny pockets of those damnably tight trousers he wears, shoulders hunching slightly. “I’m not actually allergic to being thanked,” he explains, “or kindness, or any of it really. Needed to keep a certain image—demon, you know—and it’s hard to do that when you’re being so…” Here he makes a gesture that Aziraphale assumes means something between _polite_ and _an angelic prick._

 _“Good,”_ Crowley finishes, and Aziraphale is taken aback.

“Oh,” he breathes.

“You don’t see yourself when you’re like that, angel,” Crowley rushes on defensively. “All soft and earnest and delighted, and—bloody _incandescent,_ that’s what you are.” Crowley shuts his mouth abruptly. “Yeah, I’ll… I’ll stop talking now.”

“I see,” Aziraphale says, winded. He sinks down into his armchair, his legs unsteady in the face of this revelation, and takes in the demon, his friend, standing frozen before him, a haphazard collection of limbs and nerves, black like a splash of ink against the meticulously selected neutrals of the bookshop. Takes in the reckless line of his mouth and the careful curve of his hands, the way his sunglasses are perched slightly askew on his head, leaving those serpentine eyes to dart back and forth all around the shop and every once in a while glancing nervously at Aziraphale.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says. He stops to take a breath before making direct eye contact with Crowley and choosing his next words with care. “Thank you for telling me.”

The reaction is immediate, and Aziraphale catalogues it like it’s the most precious book he’s ever laid eyes on. Crowley straightens, his mouth going slack with disbelief as he stares. A pink flush begins to emerge, starting from his neck and settling high on his cheeks. And his eyes turn gold from edge to edge, just like that first day in the garden, the pupils becoming impossibly round and his gaze is so full of adoration and surprise that Aziraphale can scarcely breathe from the full force of it.

A smile spreads across Aziraphale’s face as he looks at Crowley. “You’re right,” he says softly, earnestly, delightedly. “Absolutely incandescent.”

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: [contradictory-existence](https://contradictory-existence.tumblr.com/)


End file.
